PDF (8 MB) - Virtual Library of the Public Library of Cincinnati

SONGSTER. 63
But now your head's airn'd bald, John,
Your locks are like the snow,
Yet, blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John,
When nature first began
To try her cannie hand, John,
Her master-work was man:
And you among thera a', John,
Sae trig frae tap to toe.
She proved to be nae journey-v^rark,
John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John,
Ye were my first conceit.
And ye need na think it strange, John,
Though I ca' ye trim and neat;
Though some folks say ye're auld, John,
I never think ye so,
But I think ye're aye the same to me,
John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John,
We've seen our bairns' bairns.
And yet, my dear John Anderson,
I'm happy in your arms ;
And sae are ye in mine, John—
I'm sure ye'll ne'er say no.
Though the days are gane that ye have eeenp
John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John,
What pleasure does it gie.
To see sae many sprouts, John,
Spring up 'tween you and me;
And ilka lad and lass, John,
In our footsteps to go.